


Prologue 1: Not the Wisest of Choices

by BeatrixGtheMaskedDogNoobsomeExagerjunk



Series: Poe Party 2: The Cursed Treasure of the Writer’s Scavenger Hunt [1]
Category: Edgar Allan Poe's Murder Mystery Dinner Party (Web Series), Literary RPF
Genre: Aftermath, Anachronistic, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 05:20:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17656676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeatrixGtheMaskedDogNoobsomeExagerjunk/pseuds/BeatrixGtheMaskedDogNoobsomeExagerjunk
Summary: At the news that Edgar Allan Poe is throwing another party, Ernest Hemingway is appalled and wonders why the fool does it again.Drinking, he is met by fellow survivor Oscar Wilde. They talk.





	Prologue 1: Not the Wisest of Choices

**Author's Note:**

> Highly required to watch Shipwrecked Comedy's web series, [Edgar Allan Poe's Murder Mystery Dinner Party!](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLs2T_dNZ-XW6UjWC-qUbZSWJyCLFmsdPP)
> 
> Some [Poe Party Extras](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLs2T_dNZ-XW5koycOUJ7VVfL8ddzoG4kA) for more background and hilarity!
> 
> Not as required but would be of great help, [A Tell-Tale Vlog/Socially-Awkward Poe!](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLs2T_dNZ-XW4tvX3cYwkGsObIxlbBSxIs)

“It’s been a while,” a pretentious, accented voice greeted.

The familiar man turned to look, strands of oily, disgusting hair dangling on his face, with dark, buggy eyes lined with stress and the influence of alcohol and insomnia. His golden coat was disheveled, stains near the armpits. His hairy fingers curled tighter against the tinted glass of...whatever Hemingway liked to drink. Whatever it was, it wasn’t the refined kind of drinks Wilde liked drinking.

”Sure,” Ernest spat, then turned to stare into his drink.

Oscar then sat down next to Ernest, placing down his walking cane. The Irishman asked for something Ernest had forgotten, but it was surprisingly stronger than what he expected Oscar to get. It was stronger than what he expected himself to get.

"Not sure if you heard this yet," Ernest spoke, tilting his head up as if in prayer. "But Poe's throwing another dinner party."

"What?" Wilde brushed away a strand of his locks, leaning back a bit to retain some balance on the bar stool. Confused at the poet's desperate attempt for friendship, then suddenly amused about it, "Edgar Allan Poe, throwing another dinner party?"

"I'm not deaf."

"So like what? Is this another attempt of Poe's to make a murder mystery party go well?"

Ernest watched Oscar receive his drink from the bartender. "My friend, Gertrude Stein, was invited. She told me."

Wilde took a sip. The drink was sweet but strong, smooth and soft on his throat, like the very idea of escapism but in liquid form. It seemed blessed by Bacchus. "And what did you tell her?"

"Well, I convinced her not to go, despite her intentions of wanting to go," Ernest drank.

"Oh, and when is that party?"

"Why, do you want to go there as well?"

"Heavens, no!" Oscar almost broke his glass, having slammed it loudly on the table. "Call me anything but a fool, Ernest. Poe's house is but a trap owned by Death itself. Surely you've moved Ms. Stein?"

"Hopefully," Hemingway turned his head slowly, glancing out the glass windows. It was raining out, every drop a waterfall. It wasn't like that when he entered the bar. The lights from outside were yellowish, making the bar shine brown more. Everything felt like sepia, an old picture rotting. "I may have strained our relationship more than I expected."

"I suppose she agreed with you in reluctance?"

"That's one way to put it." Ernest looked at Oscar. "Where've you been?"

"For some reason, I got an invitation to an event organized by prominent members of the Children's Book community! I thought it was insulting at first but I let it slide. Can't help coming to gatherings," Oscar laughed.

"Any highlights?"

"Well, J.M. Barrie announced quite the challenge--a writer's scavenger hunt!" Oscar began to drink. "Oh my, this place is really good."

"This is my favorite bar."

"Noted. It's now my favorite too." Oscar then proceeded to finish what was in his glass.

Hemingway relaxed a bit. Sure, the company wasn't the best at the moment, but he found comfort in it. Wilde was popular for a reason, and Hemingway detected it at that moment. It felt unnecessary to think about, so quickly he filtered his thoughts.

"Do you intend to participate in the scavenger hunt?"

"Oh, no." Oscar put his glass down. "I refuse to trouble myself over a prize--I, for one, have better and preferred ways of getting such a large sum of money."

"So bribe and help cheat?"

Oscar tsked in anger. "What the hell do you think of me, Mr. Hemingway?!"

"A pansy that favors style over substance,"

Unsure if offended or being described, "You're not wrong."

Wilde attempted to curb his anger and relax. His fists tightened daintily and he briefly pursed his lips. "Not too wrong."

The other shook his head, rolling his eyes. "How much is it?"

"Five million American dollars."

"Jesus!"

"Right?" Oscar began to prattle on. "Barrie mentioned 7 treasure chests, each with its own unique surprise to offer the first one to open them. Many of the guests were so very eager."

"So one has to get all the boxes to be the winner of the prize then, right?"

"Well no," Oscar tapped his fingers against the tabletop. "Barrie said he'd acknowledge 7 winners. As long as you get a chest and bring it to him or to any member of his committee, you receive the cash prize."

"Damn," Ernest was impressed. "Where's he getting all this money?"

"From his theatrical productions--as a playwright, I know how high-paying theater can be."

"You said he had a committee?"

"Yes," The door of the bar blew open, making Oscar pause to look.

Continuing, "Where was I-"

"J. M. Barrie's committee?"

"Right! So, I believe Rudyard Kipling and Alexandre Dumas are the members. The older Dumas by the way, not the younger."

"I assumed you meant actual novelist Alexandre Dumas."

"I apologize; the theater community can get confused sometimes."

"It's alright, I'm not part of it." Hemingway looked behind Wilde, seeing a familiar figure frantically pacing about silently. The figure paused as the bartender gave him a shot. The figure drank. Fear consumed it like it was being chased by an angry, violent mob.

"Do you think Poe would participate in such a challenge?" Hemingway asked, eyes not on Wilde but on the more pleasing and attention-grabbing figure.

"If he tried to go out more, I bet he'd gain the enthusiasm." When he realized Ernest wasn't paying attention to him anymore, Oscar turned back to see what the American was looking at.

The two watched the figure.

"I feel like I know this guy; it's at the tip of my-"

"Dickens. It's Charles Dickens."

"Ah. Wonder what the guy's doing here. You got any idea, Wilde?"

"I don't converse much with Mr. Dickens, but he has quite the view on the world. Shame how too sentimental his works could get."

"Dunno, it still tugs on the heartstrings."

Oscar stared briefly at Ernest. Turning back to face Dickens, "Sure."

Dickens suddenly faced the two, who looked away when he caught them in their sights.

"Writers!" He exclaimed, his footsteps echoing towards the two.

"Do any of you happen to know the time?"

"Someone's going quite mad," Wilde remarked with sultry flavor as if intending to insult Dickens.

"It's 7:36," Hemingway replied.

"No!" The Brit got more frantic. "What is the time?!"

"Do you want my damn watch, buddy?" Ernest was very confused.

"I am quite lost, sirs," Dickens was breathing heavily. "I cannot move on until I know when I am."

"Sounds like the talk of a science fiction writer, isn't it, Ernest?"

"The only one we know well enough is H.G. Wells, and the man is dead!"

"You know Mr. Wells?" Dickens asked.

"Yes." They replied.

"We all met at a party at Edgar Allan Poe's house," Oscar added.

Dickens gasped, revelation written in his face, relief in his sweat. "This must be after Poe's first party, of course!"

"Are you alright, Mr. Dickens?" Ernest asked, earnestly.

"I just need a sense of when I am in order to go to a party that I am most terribly missing," Dickens said in breaths. "But what you have said is enough!"

"Pardon?" Oscar was puzzled by the man's behavior.

"Thank you!" He yelled, running out the bar.

"That was weird," Ernest said.

"Sounds like the rabble of a time-traveler. Don't deny it, the clues are all over his speech."

"No doy, Wilde." Hemingway faced away from the bar area, spreading his legs opens and resting his elbows on the counter, exhausted by Dickens's energy earlier.

"You don't think ghosts can time travel now, Mr. Hemingway?" Wilde loosened himself a bit. Not as much as Hemingway but definitely more relaxed.

"Maybe that's what got A Christmas Carol to be what it was--time traveling ghosts."

"An amusing thought, Mr. Hemingway!"

They laughed, which was interrupted by the bartender.

"Any of you paying for that one fellow who just left?"

The two stared at each other, both unwilling to pay for Dickens's one shot.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first prologue to a new series! In an attempt to make a fan sequel to Poe Party, have this!
> 
> The prologues are there to establish background to the plot of the fanfic
> 
> Also yes, I enjoy Poe Party
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed this!
> 
> Edgar Allan Poe's Murder Mystery Dinner Party belongs to Shipwrecked Comedy
> 
> Prologue 2 will be focusing on a writer mentioned in the Original Series, who will make appearances in the main fic


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